Avery Jones

Brighton, August 1939
The guns had finally fallen silent. The Battle of London was over. How could this occur? I thought to myself. Against all odds, Oswald Mosley's forces won against the British democrats. They went from a small rump state in Wales, Birmingham and Liverpool to now pushing the British government's forces out of London and the Scottish Highlands. I still had hope. I wanted to have hope. Yet I found myself devoid of my fighting spirit, once so alive and willing to do anything. There had been rumors that the British Government was going to surrender later that night, but those are just rumors. The resistance group I had joined faltered as people deserted or surrendered to the nationalists. But part of the resistance was still alive. A few days ago, I had met up with the last remaining resistance members, when London was still surrounded. They told me they were going to leave the British Isles. A ship was departing for Canada, and they were going to take it. At first I decided against it, but took them on their offer. I left London a few days ago with them and departed to Brighton. I wanted peace, but not this peace. Not to mention, the British Empire as we knew it was also gone. African nationalists took up arms in the last colonies of British Africa and declared their independence. The few garrisons stationed in the colonies were no match. In 2 weeks, the last remaining British troops and people who migrated to the African colonies are set to leave Africa for mainland Britain. I looked away, at my watch and saw the time: 5:42 PM. I need to go, I thought to myself. I got from the park bench where near the ocean and made my way to the port where the rest of the group was. When the time hit 6:00, we began to board. There was Mark, the leader of the group, Jenny, Jack, Emil Dimitri and Robert. At its height, our resistance had over 100 members. But that was in the past, and I needed to let that go. Luckily, Jenny knew the boat's captain and were able to convince him to allow us to board. I know I should be thankful but I'm bitter and venegeful. The ship was loaded with people fleeing from the nationalists. Eventually, the ship departed from the harbor. I looked over the horizon as I watched the port slowly grow into obscurence. A few hours later, the sun set, but I was still watching the ocean when Dimitri came to my side. He fled the Russian nationalists in 1930, only to now flee the nationalists British. I could tell he wanted to talk with me, but kept silent. I closed my eyes and imagined my life before all this mess. It made this night seem ordinary, like it was just a normal cruise around Europe, and I would be home in London in a few days. Just a typical night, in Britain.